NOVEL NEXT Chapter 2: The Hogwarts Train
"A what stone?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he stared at Silverwood, feeling more lost with each passing moment.
"A focus stone, my boy," Silverwood replied, his tone patient but laced with a subtle enthusiasm, as if he had been waiting for this question. He stepped closer to a nearby display case and gestured toward an assortment of small, polished gemstones, each glowing faintly with an inner light. They came in a variety of colors—brilliant blues, fiery reds, deep greens, and shimmering silvers. "As you see," he continued, pointing to Harry's wand, "your wand has those three slots carved into its wood. They're often overlooked by modern wizards, but those slots are designed for customization. Focus stones, or enchanted gemstones, are placed there to amplify or refine a wizard's magic."
Harry instinctively looked down at his wand, turning it over in his hand. Sure enough, there were three small, empty indentations running along its shaft that he had never noticed before. "I thought those were just part of the design," he muttered.
Silverwood let out a soft chuckle. "Oh, they are—but not merely for decoration. Think of a focus stone as a magnifying glass for your magic. It doesn't change what you can do, but it sharpens and concentrates your spells, allowing for greater precision, power, and even efficiency. For example," he said, picking up a deep crimson stone, "this ruby focus stone enhances fire-based magic. Perfect for a wizard who favors spells like Incendio or Expulso. Or," he continued, holding up a pale blue sapphire, "this one strengthens water and ice magic, aiding in spells like Aguamenti or Glacius."
Harry tilted his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept. "So... it just makes my spells stronger?"
"Not just stronger," Silverwood corrected, placing the stones back in the case. "It can also make your spells more refined. A skilled wizard with the right focus stones can achieve feats that would normally require years of practice or an extraordinary amount of magical power. The stones work in harmony with your natural magic, acting as conduits to channel your energy more effectively."
Harry considered this, running his fingers over the slots in his wand. "Why doesn't everyone use these, then?"
Silverwood's expression turned slightly more serious. "Ah, well, that comes down to two things: cost and compatibility. High-quality focus stones—those that are properly enchanted and attuned to a wizard's magic—are not cheap. For most wizards, even one would be an extravagance, let alone a full set. And even if one can afford them, the stones must be compatible with the wand and the wizard's magical signature. A poorly attuned stone can actually disrupt your magic rather than enhance it."
Hagrid, who had been standing quietly in the background, cleared his throat. "Aye, most folk don' even know 'bout focus stones these days. Old-fashioned magic, yeh see. The kind yeh don' learn at Hogwarts much anymore."
Harry's gaze shifted to the case of stones, his curiosity piqued despite himself. He couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed. Just this morning, he hadn't even known he was a wizard, and now he was being told that he could amplify his magic with rare and expensive gemstones? It was a lot to take in.
Silverwood seemed to sense Harry's hesitation. "I know it's a great deal to think about, but as the heir of the Potter family, these things are important. Your family's legacy includes more than just gold and treasure, young man. You carry the weight of generations of magical innovation and tradition. And while most would balk at the expense, I'm sure you've already seen how little that will concern you."
Harry flushed slightly, remembering the seemingly endless rows of gold bars in the family vault. He'd never imagined that kind of wealth, let alone the idea of spending it on something as esoteric as focus stones.
"All right," Harry said hesitantly, stepping closer to the display case. "So, how do I know which one is... compatible with me?"
Silverwood smiled, clearly pleased by Harry's growing interest. "Excellent question. The answer lies in resonance. Every wizard's magic has its own unique frequency, much like a fingerprint. The right focus stone will hum or glow when it comes into contact with your magic. Go ahead—try it for yourself."
Harry hesitated for a moment before reaching out toward the display case. Silverwood slid the glass aside, giving him access to the array of shimmering stones. Tentatively, Harry reached for a small emerald-green stone, its surface gleaming like liquid light. As soon as his fingers brushed it, a faint warmth spread through his hand, but the stone remained inert. He frowned and placed it back.
"Try another," Silverwood encouraged.
Harry picked up a ruby next, but this one felt cold and unresponsive. A sapphire, a topaz, and even a smoky quartz yielded similar results. Just as he was beginning to feel disheartened, his eyes landed on a curious stone at the very edge of the case. It was an opal, its surface swirling with an iridescent array of colors that seemed to shift and shimmer as he looked at it.
The moment his fingers closed around the opal, a gentle vibration pulsed through his hand, traveling up his arm and settling in his chest. The stone glowed faintly, its colors intensifying as if in response to his touch. Harry's eyes widened. "I think... I think this is the one."
Silverwood's face lit up with approval. "Ah, a prism opal! A rare choice, and an excellent one at that. This particular stone enhances versatility, allowing for greater adaptability in spellwork. It's an ideal focus for a young wizard still discovering the breadth of his talents."
Harry held the stone in his palm, marveling at the way it seemed to respond to him. "So... what do I do with it now?"
"Simple," Silverwood said, reaching for Harry's wand. "I'll enchant it into one of the slots for you. Once it's set, the stone will be permanently bonded to your wand and your magic. Consider it your first step toward mastering your craft."
As Silverwood began the process of embedding the focus stone into his wand, Harry couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement. For the first time since entering the wizarding world, he felt a sense of control—a feeling that he wasn't just being swept along by the currents of destiny, but was actively shaping his path forward.
Thirty minutes later, Silverwood returned, presenting Harry with his wand. The prism opal gleamed brightly, now firmly fitted into the leftmost groove, its iridescent colors casting soft reflections along the polished wood. Harry turned the wand over in his hand, marveling at how natural the stone looked, as though it had always been a part of the wand. When he gave it a small wave, he felt the faint hum of magic coursing through him—sharper, clearer, and more potent than ever before.
"Thank you, sir," Harry said earnestly, impressed with the craftsmanship. "It feels... different. Like it's truly mine now."
Silverwood nodded with a pleased expression, adjusting his round spectacles. "That's how it should feel. A wizard's wand is an extension of himself, and with the prism opal now attuned to your magic, you'll find your spells more responsive. It's a wise first investment into your magical education." He hesitated briefly before adding with a knowing smile, "And considering your lineage, it's a step toward reclaiming what's always been yours by right."
Harry tilted his head slightly at that last comment but decided not to press further. There had been too many cryptic mentions of his family already, and he wasn't sure he could handle more secrets today. Instead, he got straight to the point. "So, how much do I owe you, sir?"
Silverwood steepled his fingers and leaned back slightly. "The prism opal itself is 20,000 Galleons, and the labor for embedding it is another 5,000. A steep price for some, but given your... unique circumstances, I imagine it's a small dent in your vault."
Harry's stomach flipped slightly at the sum, even though he knew it was nothing compared to what he'd seen in the Potter family vault. With Hagrid's guidance, he handed over the payment without hesitation. As the hefty stack of gold coins exchanged hands, Silverwood tucked them away with a flourish, offering a slight bow. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter. May your wand guide you to great things."
With their transaction concluded, Hagrid clapped Harry on the back with a force that nearly sent him stumbling. "All done then, lad? Good! We best be goin'. Sun's gettin' low, and I reckon yer folks'll be wantin' you back soon enough."
The mention of the Dursleys brought an immediate pang of sadness to Harry's chest. For a brief moment, he had completely forgotten about them, lost in the wonder of discovering this magical world where he was someone important, someone with a legacy. Now, the thought of returning to Privet Drive—to Dudley's taunts, Aunt Petunia's glares, and Uncle Vernon's roars—cast a shadow over his excitement.
Hagrid seemed to sense the shift in Harry's mood and gave him a reassuring smile as they stepped out of the shop and back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley. The golden light of the setting sun bathed the cobblestones, casting long shadows and giving the street an almost otherworldly glow. "Cheer up, Harry," Hagrid said in his gruff but kind voice. "It's just fer a few more days, an' then ye'll be off to Hogwarts. Bet yer bottom Galleon, once yer on that train, you'll leave all the bad memories behind."
Harry nodded, though his heart still felt heavy. The thought of Hogwarts did bring a glimmer of hope, though. It was the place where he could finally belong, where he could learn magic, and where—maybe, just maybe—he could make friends. Real friends. The kind he had always dreamed about when he was alone in the cupboard under the stairs.
As they made their way through the winding streets, Harry took one last look around Diagon Alley, committing the sights and sounds to memory. He wanted to hold on to this moment—the cheerful chatter of witches and wizards, the colorful shopfronts, the smell of roasted nuts and cauldron polish lingering in the air. It felt like a piece of the life he should have always had, stolen away and now finally returned to him.
By the time they reached the brick archway that led back to the Muggle world, the sun was a blazing orange orb on the horizon, and the shadows had grown long and deep. Hagrid tapped the bricks in a specific sequence, and the archway melted away to reveal the familiar dull streets of London. The contrast was jarring, and Harry felt a pang of reluctance as they stepped through.
Harry forced a small smile and nodded. As they walked toward the station where Hagrid had parked the motorbike, he allowed himself to hold on to that thought—that soon, he would be on his way to something better. And for the first time, despite the lingering sadness of returning to Privet Drive, Harry felt a spark of hope for the future.
Harry wiped the rain from his face and tried to steady himself as Hagrid flew the motorbike low through the clouds, the wind and moisture soaking him to the bone. The massive, clumsy bike seemed almost impervious to the storm, though Harry wasn't so sure about his own comfort. The clouds blurred the lights of the city below, but at least it provided some semblance of privacy.
"Sorry, me boy," Hagrid bellowed over the roar of the wind. "But I've got orders not to be seen by the Muggles, and I know no better way than to hide in clouds!"
Harry nodded, feeling the sting of rain hitting his skin like small, icy needles. His robes clung to him, heavy with the wetness, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He would never admit it aloud, but a small part of him felt exhilarated. Despite the damp, despite the strange, new world he was stepping into, this moment—flying on a motorbike with a giant—was oddly thrilling. It was the kind of adventure he'd never even imagined in his dull life with the Dursleys.
But all too soon, the clouds parted, and the glimmering lights of Privet Drive came into view. Hagrid steered the motorbike lower, expertly dodging rooftops as he guided them back to the ground. The landing was a bit rougher than Harry would have liked, and the bike's screeching tires left a streak of burnt rubber on the road, but they managed to stop in front of Number 4 with only a few jolts and a couple of very near misses.
The streetlights had flickered on, casting an eerie yellow glow over the silent rows of houses. The night had settled in, and the typical calm of Privet Drive was almost suffocating after the vibrant bustle of Diagon Alley.
"Here we are," Hagrid grunted, killing the engine and giving Harry a large, wet pat on the back. "Not much longer, Harry. Soon enough, you'll be away from here, safe and sound."
Harry gave Hagrid a grateful smile, though a pit formed in his stomach at the thought of the Dursleys. Hagrid didn't seem to notice his sudden hesitation as he swung open the door to the motorbike and reached into the side compartment for Harry's trunk. The whole thing seemed impossibly heavy, but Hagrid somehow managed to lift it with one hand. "I'll leave this by the front door, alright? Don't want to be seen by anyone, an' you're better off gettin' in quick-like, yeah?"
Harry nodded again, silently wishing that the bike would take him far away from this place, that he could simply disappear into the night with Hagrid. But reality soon reasserted itself, and with one final wave, Hagrid mounted the bike again, revved the engine, and with a gust of wind, he shot back into the sky, vanishing into the darkness.
Harry turned to face Number 4 with a heavy sigh. The air around him felt still and oppressive, and as he stepped up the front path, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Dursleys were waiting—watching for any excuse to make his life harder.
As he entered the house and slipped through the door, he was greeted by the sound of the television blaring from the living room. The familiar sight of his uncle's large, bulbous figure slumped on the couch greeted him. Uncle Vernon, eyes glued to the screen, didn't seem to notice Harry at first. His mouth was open, spoon poised mid-air, frozen in the middle of an ice cream bite.
"Oh, you're back," Vernon finally said in a tone that made it clear he'd only half-registered Harry's return. "Well, get to your room and don't make a sound. I want to enjoy the match."
The words hit Harry like a slap in the face. It was all too familiar—his uncle dismissing him with the same air of superiority and irritation that he always had. Harry wanted to snap back, to tell Vernon that he'd had the most extraordinary day of his life and that he wasn't going to be treated like this anymore. But the anger was brief and quickly swallowed by a wave of exhaustion.
Harry simply nodded and made his way up the stairs, his footsteps loud against the wooden steps. As he passed Dudley's room, he could hear the sounds of his cousin's snores echoing through the walls. The house felt colder and more suffocating than ever.
Entering his room, Harry quickly shut the door behind him, his hand lingering on the knob for a moment. He glanced at the single window that offered a view of the dark street, then turned his attention to his trunk. The weight of it seemed far less daunting than it had earlier, now that he knew what was inside. His magical items—his wand, the focus stone, the vault key—felt like small treasures, but they carried with them the promise of something far greater.
He set his trunk down beside his bed and then walked over to the mirror, catching a glimpse of himself. The reflection staring back at him was a stranger, someone who had just begun to understand his place in a world that he never knew existed. His hair, still damp, hung messily over his forehead, and the reflection seemed somehow... older, wiser, though not in the way he expected. The ring on his finger—the Potter family ring—gleamed faintly in the dim light.
For a moment, Harry stared at the reflection of the red "P" emblazoned in the center of the ring. It was a symbol of his family, of a legacy he had yet to fully comprehend. But for the first time, he felt something stirring inside him, a flicker of something more than the boy who had been locked away in a cupboard. Something stronger.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Harry had the distinct feeling that he was no longer just a Dursley, no longer just an orphaned child lost in a cruel world. He was a Potter, and that meant something. It had to.
Sighing, Harry climbed into bed, though sleep didn't come easy. His mind raced with thoughts of Hogwarts, of Diagon Alley, of the many things he had yet to learn. But as he closed his eyes, the last thought that drifted through his mind was a simple one: I'm not alone anymore.
By the time the day finally arrived for Harry to leave for Hogwarts, he was more than ready to escape the suffocating grip of the Dursleys. The last month had been a series of quiet, tense moments, and Harry had taken full advantage of the relative solitude. The air at Number 4 Privet Drive felt heavier than ever, as if the walls themselves were closing in around him, but the ring on his finger gave him a sense of calm—a reminder that he was no longer a mere orphaned child at the mercy of the Dursleys. He was someone else now, someone with a family legacy and a destiny far beyond the dull life they had imposed on him.
The day after his return from Diagon Alley, Vernon had noticed the gleam of the Potter family ring on Harry's finger. Harry had been in the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast, when his uncle had stormed over, eyes narrowed with suspicion and resentment.
"What's this?" Vernon had demanded, his thick fingers pointing at the ring. "Take that off at once!"
Harry hadn't been particularly eager to entertain his uncle's demands, especially not after everything that had transpired. He hadn't wanted to raise his hand, but instinctively, he lifted it to show Vernon the ring more clearly, almost as if to dare him to try. But before he could speak, a strange surge of power rippled from the ring, and before either of them could react, Vernon was sent flying backward with surprising force, crashing into the dining table with a resounding thud. The table groaned under his weight, its legs buckling slightly, and Vernon lay there, stunned and disoriented, as Harry stood frozen in place, his heart pounding in his chest.
The ring had done that.
Harry had no idea how or why, but there was no mistaking it. The power had surged from the ring itself, defending him as though it had a mind of its own. Vernon had gotten to his feet slowly, his face an unhealthy shade of red, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fear. For the first time in Harry's life, his uncle had looked at him as if he were something... other. Not just a nuisance, not just an unwanted burden—but something dangerous.
After that day, Harry barely saw Vernon at all. The man had become increasingly reclusive, taking his frustrations out on everything but Harry. If the Dursleys had previously ignored him, now they practically feared him. Dudley, who normally would have taunted and belittled him at any chance, kept his distance, too, though Harry could tell that the usual resentment had been replaced by something darker—a suspicion that Harry was no longer the easy target he had been.
In fact, after the incident, Vernon replaced the dining table—the one that had been shattered by his own collision—with a larger, more imposing one that Harry was strictly forbidden to use. It was as if Vernon had decided, on some subconscious level, that Harry no longer fit in this house—he was too different, too strange for their taste. And so, he had relegated Harry to the smaller, much less comfortable table in the corner of the kitchen, a silent signal of the growing divide between them. Harry had barely spoken a word about it, knowing that any argument would only serve to remind them of the unspoken truth that hung in the air like a storm cloud: he didn't belong here anymore.
In the weeks leading up to his departure, Harry found himself retreating more and more into his own world. His new possessions—the wand, the focus stone, the family vault key—served as comforting reminders of the world he was about to enter, a world where he would no longer be seen as just "Harry Potter, the boy who lived in a cupboard." The Dursleys' house had become a prison in his mind, each room a cell in which he was held captive by their cruelty and ignorance. But now, finally, the day had arrived when he would leave.
The morning of his departure, Harry stood in the hallway, his trunk packed and waiting beside the front door. His owl, Hedwig, was perched silently on her cage, her feathers puffed against the chill of the early morning. The house felt eerily quiet, as if the Dursleys themselves were pretending to ignore the fact that he was leaving. But Harry was past caring about them. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
When Hagrid arrived at the front door, he looked even bigger than Harry remembered, his massive form filling the doorway like some kind of gentle giant. The sight of him brought a rush of relief—a confirmation that this was real, that he was really leaving. Hagrid grinned, his wild hair and beard looking even more unruly than usual, his eyes twinkling with warmth.
"All set, Harry?" he boomed, his voice echoing in the quiet of the house.
Harry nodded, the last traces of doubt disappearing. He was ready.
"I'll get your trunk," Hagrid said, bending down to grab it with surprising ease. "And don't worry about the Dursleys. You've got a new life waiting for you, Harry. And I'm sure it'll be better than any of this."
For a brief moment, Harry glanced back at the house. Through the living room window, he could see the flicker of the television, the sound of the Dursleys still going about their mundane routines. But it all felt so distant now. This wasn't his world. He had outgrown it.
With one last look at the house that had never truly been home, Harry stepped outside, his heart light and his future ahead of him. There was a whole new world waiting, and Harry was more than ready to face it.
It wasn't long before Hagrid parked a few blocks from King's Cross Station, and the two of them made their way on foot, the bustling city of London alive around them. "What about the bike?" Harry asked, glancing back at the large motorcycle Hagrid had been riding.
Hagrid chuckled, his wide grin showing more of his teeth. "Oh, don't you worry about that, me boy. Non-magical folks won't see anything but a rubbish bin. Besides, it ain't even my bike. Belongs to an old friend o' mine," he explained casually, waving a hand dismissively as if to make the issue of the bike vanish into thin air. Harry, still unsure but trusting Hagrid's word, followed the giant towards the station.
As they approached the entrance, Hagrid reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded ticket. "Oh, before I forget," he said, holding it out to Harry. "Here, you'll be needin' this for the train."
Harry took the ticket from him, eyes scanning the details. His brow furrowed when he saw the platform number: 9¾. He looked up at Hagrid, puzzled. "9¾? Is this some sort of joke?"
Hagrid smiled knowingly, his eyes twinkling with that familiar warmth. "Not a joke, Harry. You'll see soon enough. Just keep your wits about you, and don't let anyone see you hesitate."
Before Harry could ask more questions, Hagrid clapped him on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. "I'll leave you here, then. Got a bit more to do before I head off. You'll be fine, trust me."
As Hagrid disappeared into the crowd, Harry felt a mixture of excitement and confusion swell inside him. He stood alone for a moment, looking at the busy station, wondering how he was supposed to find this elusive platform. But before he could give it much thought, a voice behind him interrupted his musings.
"Excuse me, are you lost, dear?" a woman asked, her tone warm yet commanding.
Harry turned around to find a tall, elegant woman standing there, her posture regal and assured. She had long, flowing black hair, pulled up into a neat bun, and sharp, almost aristocratic features. Her face was long, with high cheekbones and slightly slanted green eyes that shimmered with intelligence. She was dressed in an immaculate coat and carried herself with the kind of grace Harry immediately recognized as belonging to someone of high birth.
"Er... I'm looking for Platform 9¾," Harry said, feeling a bit awkward.
The woman smiled gently, as if amused by the question. "Ah, I see. You must be Harry Potter." She stepped closer, her gaze softening, yet still maintaining that air of authority. "My name is Angelika Parkinson. It seems you've already been given the ticket. Follow me, dear. I'll show you the way."
Before Harry could ask anything further, Angelika took the lead, her footsteps quick and sure. Harry followed closely behind, taking in her every movement. There was something about her that seemed effortless, like she belonged to a world far beyond the ordinary, and Harry found himself wondering what the connection was between her and his soon-to-be new life at Hogwarts.
As they walked through the station, Angelika didn't offer much conversation, but her presence was calming. Harry felt a quiet trust in her, as though she knew exactly where they were going and how to get there. And though he didn't yet fully understand it, he could tell she had seen much of the wizarding world, perhaps more than anyone he had met so far.
"Just a bit further," she said softly, as they neared the end of the platform.
With a final glance at Harry, Angelika looked up at the large brick wall that divided the platforms. Harry followed her gaze, unsure of what was about to happen, but before he could say anything, she stepped forward with a purpose. Without missing a beat, she began to walk directly toward the wall, her steps steady and sure.
"Wait—!" Harry started, his heart racing as he watched her approach the solid brick.
But before he could stop her, Angelika smoothly passed through the wall without a single sign of hesitation, vanishing on the other side. Harry blinked, astonished. He could hardly believe his eyes. Had she... just walked through it?
A moment later, the woman's voice called out to him from beyond the wall. "Come now, Mr. Potter. It's your turn."
Shaking off his disbelief, Harry took a deep breath and, heart pounding in his chest, followed her lead. He could feel the coolness of the air against his skin as he approached the wall, the pressure of his own excitement building. He took a step, then another, and just before he could stop himself, he closed his eyes and braced for impact—
And then, just like that, he was through.
The noise of the station vanished in an instant, replaced by a hum of excitement and the gentle clatter of trains. When Harry opened his eyes, he was no longer in the crowded King's Cross Station. Instead, he found himself standing on a bustling platform, surrounded by students dressed in black robes and chatting excitedly. It was as if they had stepped into a completely different world—a magical world.
Angelika was waiting for him, her expression now one of quiet satisfaction. "There you go, Mr. Potter. Welcome to Platform 9¾. All aboard the Hogwarts Express."
As Harry walked closer to the massive red train, he couldn't help but feel the rush of anticipation build within him. The Hogwarts Express stood like a gleaming giant, its carriages lined up, all of them filled with students, some waving to friends, others settling into their seats. Harry's gaze drifted to the back of the train, but the last carriage was hidden from view, obscured by the sheer size of the engine. Just as he was about to turn back to Angelika, who had been walking a few paces ahead of him, a figure approached them.
The man who walked toward him looked like he had seen more than his fair share of battles. His face was rugged, with scars marking his skin like a map of past conflicts, and his clothes, though refined, carried the air of someone who was no stranger to hardship. By his side was a young woman Harry recognized immediately—Pansy Parkinson. Harry's eyes flickered to Pansy's face, and then to her gaze, which quickly shifted to his hand. She looked at the Potter ring, and Harry felt a sudden unease. It wasn't just the size of the ring, or the weight of the gold; it was the look in her eyes as she acknowledged it. Something was shifting beneath the surface, and Harry had no idea what to make of it.
Without warning, Pansy bowed low to him, her posture perfect and deliberate. "Oh, so you've taken the ring. Good, that'll make this much easier," she said with an odd calmness to her voice. There was something in her tone that Harry couldn't quite place—a formality, a certainty. It was as if she were speaking to someone who already held authority, as if she was pledging allegiance to him.
Then, with a grace that belied her usual attitude, Pansy straightened up, her eyes meeting his. "I, Pansy Parkinson of the House of Parkinson, hereby swear to you, Harry Potter of House Potter, to be by your side now and forever." Her voice was clear and unwavering as she spoke the words, her declaration carrying a weight that sent a strange chill through Harry's spine.
She paused for a moment, as if waiting for something, but when Harry didn't react, she rose from her bow and looked at him, a slight frown crossing her face.
Harry stood there, completely lost, trying to process what had just happened. "What the hell was that about?" he finally asked, his confusion written all over his face.
Pansy didn't seem the least bit fazed by his bewilderment. She simply shrugged, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I just took the oath, of course. I can't very well be your wife-to-be if I didn't," she answered, her tone matter-of-fact as if they had been having a casual conversation about the weather rather than pledging a lifelong bond.
Harry blinked, his mind racing. "Wife-to-be?" he echoed, unable to grasp the meaning of her words.
"Yes, Harry," Pansy replied with a faint smile, her eyes steady and unflinching. "You didn't think the Potter family ring would come without certain... responsibilities, did you?" She glanced down at the ring on his finger, her gaze softening just slightly. "That ring signifies much more than just power. It's a mark of your lineage, your heritage, and your future. You have a role to play now, Harry, whether you want to or not."
Before Harry could respond, the man by her side—his face still set in that weathered, battle-hardened expression—spoke up. "Pansy's right," he said, his voice rough and low. "The Potter family has always been tied to power, and the vows she just took... well, they're not something to be taken lightly."
Harry turned his gaze toward the man, who seemed to regard him with a calculating expression. "Who are you?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
The man gave a faint, approving nod. "Name's Marcus Parkinson," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he surveyed Harry. "I'm Pansy's father. And you'll need to understand that our world, your world now, is built on far more than just magic. There are traditions, alliances, and oaths that bind us all. And Pansy... well, she's sworn to stand by you. That's not a commitment you can just walk away from."
Harry's mind reeled as he processed the words, trying to make sense of the strange new reality that seemed to be unfolding before him. A marriage vow? Pansy Parkinson, his wife-to-be? The very idea was mind-boggling but the ring on his finger was a constant reminder that his life had taken a dramatic turn.
"So... what now?" Harry finally asked, his voice a mix of uncertainty and reluctant acceptance.
Pansy gave him a small, enigmatic smile, and Marcus' eyes darkened as if he knew Harry was about to be pulled into something much larger than he could possibly imagine. "Now," Pansy said, "we get on that train, and we go to Hogwarts. And when we get there, you'll begin to understand just how much of your life has already been decided for you."
With that, she turned on her heel, signaling to Harry to follow as she led him toward the train. Harry's heart hammered in his chest as he looked at the Hogwarts Express, wondering if his destiny was truly already set in motion or if this was just the beginning of something far more complicated. The sound of the train's whistle echoed in the distance as Harry, feeling both hesitant and determined, took the first step toward his uncertain future.